


Blood Brothers

by linndechir



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast and the Furious Series, Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Comeplay, First Time, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Stubble Burn, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10693032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: The problem, Owen thought with his face pressed against cold metal and his arse in the air, had always been Deckard's goddamn hands.





	Blood Brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Blood Brothers 血浓于水](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102133) by [alienswest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienswest/pseuds/alienswest), [asadeseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asadeseki/pseuds/asadeseki)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授翻]Blood Brother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427114) by [deeanne26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeanne26/pseuds/deeanne26)



> I hope you don't mind getting a treat for one of your requests from last year. :)

The problem, Owen thought with his face pressed against cold metal and his arse in the air, had always been Deckard's goddamn hands.

The hands that had shoved him down onto the bonnet of his own car after all but wrestling him out of his clothes, the hands that had already dug their share of bruises into Owen's thighs, the hands that were holding his arse open like he was in some kind of porno waiting for the money shot, if they'd been anywhere near the money shot. The soft skin of his arse was getting rasped raw by stubble because Deckard hadn't managed to look clean-shaven for a day in his life since he'd been sixteen, not even when he'd still been on more regular army duties, and his tongue felt unbearably hot when it licked into him. Apparently his bastard of a brother was hell-bent on giving him a thing for his mouth, too.

 

But it had started with Deckard's hands. Not because they were in any way remarkable – strong, broad, scarred across the knuckles, but so were the hands of half the men Owen had ever worked with – but because they were his.

Owen figured most people's main childhood memories were of their parents. In his mind, those memories were grey and easily forgotten, overshadowed by memories of his brother. Deckard had usually been the one to patch him up when he'd fallen off his bike or got himself punched, Deckard had been the one to slap him hard when he'd made trouble again. He'd taken the fall and the beating from their father, and then he'd slapped Owen once, twice, before ruffling his hair and calling him a wanker. Owen remembered Deckard's hands before he remembered just about anything else in his life.

When he'd been fifteen and Deckard had been home on leave, twenty-three and well on his way from regular army assignments to the kind of thing no army officially did, he'd followed his brother one night, followed him to a bar Owen knew better than to try and get into because there was no way in hell he'd pass for eighteen and the bouncer would have needed one hell of a twink fetish to let him in. But he lingered in the alley behind the building, because even then he was sure that Deckard was too private to fuck someone in a crowded club and too much of an arsehole to book a hotel room, and sure enough twenty minutes later Deckard came out with a dark-haired bloke an inch shorter than him who definitely would have passed any bouncer's twink test. It was dark in the alley and Owen didn't see much of anything, except for Deckard's hands on the guy's thighs when he'd lifted him up to fuck him against the rough brick wall. Afterwards Owen hadn't managed to get home before Deckard was back, and Deckard had been furious at him for fucking about in the middle of the night. He'd grabbed him, smashed him hard into the next wall and growled at him to get his fucking act together if he didn't want to end up in prison by the time he was of age. His hands had smelt of come, and Owen had dug bruises into his own thighs when he'd jerked off later that night.

The next time he got a chance to see Deckard fuck someone was almost five years later, up at Oxford, where Owen was working on his engineering degree and spending an abysmally boring amount of time at the gym because he wasn't going to be a scrawny loser once he joined the army and he was tired of his brother still shoving him around like a little boy. Some time earlier that year he'd conned a posh twit out of his Aston Martin for no other reason than because Deckard had talked about how much he wanted one ever since they'd watched some stupid James Bond movie as kids. It had been worth the trouble just to see the look in Deckard's eyes when they'd gone for a ride, and the way his hand curled around the shift stick made Owen's jeans unbearably tight.

He followed him to a student bar later that night, and this time Deckard didn't come out of it with a twink, but with a bloke who fit the whole “tall, dark, and handsome” thing to a T despite clearly not being a day over twenty. Maybe two times didn't mean much, but Owen decided if his brother could fuck men who looked like him, he could fuck men who looked like his brother. So while Deckard was still getting his dick wet, Owen went inside and found the first bald, big-muscled idiot who looked sod all like Deckard, but who'd do in a pinch, and he took him back to his room and made damn sure they weren't done yet by the time Deckard got back. He was riding the guy's cock when Deckard got back and picked the lock like that was any kind of normal reaction to a locked door and walked in like he owned the place. The look of barely contained fury on his face almost made Owen come on the spot.

The bloke he was fucking freaked out a little under him, but faced with the choice of walking out with his dick still hard or getting to finish as long as he ignored that they weren't alone anymore, well, there's some truth to the saying that most men think with their dicks. So Deckard sat down on a chair, and Owen met his eyes and didn't look away again while he sank back down on the bloke's cock. Deckard looked like he wasn't sure which one of them he wanted to kill more. Owen hadn't seen him kill yet back then, but in that moment he had no doubt that Deckard had to be damn good at it. His hands were curled into fists on his thighs, and Owen had seen him use those, again and again when they'd been kids, all the fights Deckard had finished for Owen, fights that Owen had only started half the time because he wanted to see Deckard's fists break someone's bones. He came so hard he almost blacked out when he imagined those fists beating the life out of the man whose cock he was using right now. The next thing he knew Deckard's hands were on his shoulders and arms, dragging him off the bloke's panting body. Owen saw the look in Deckard's eyes and shook his head in warning because there was no way they'd get away with murdering someone in Owen's dorm room, so Deckard only threw the poor fuck out of the room without giving him time to get dressed.

“You wanted to kill him,” Owen said, still stark naked, his cock just a few inches away from Deckard's hands. “Why, huh? Just for fucking your little brother? Or for getting where you wanted to get first?”

Deckard punched him then, so hard he sent Owen reeling back onto the bed, and walked out. Four days later, when Deckard Shaw was officially out of the country, the local news went crazy over the body of a young man found in a dumpster, his neck snapped, and Owen didn't even need to see his name to know it was Deckard's doing. He only wished he'd been there to see Deckard do it, and the next weeks he jerked off to nothing but the fantasy of Deckard killing that bloke right there in Owen's dorm room, gaze locked with Owen's while he broke the poor sod's neck.

 

He hadn't watched Deckard often enough to know all the ins and outs of what his brother was or wasn't into, but he had a hard time imagining Deckard doing _this_ to anyone else. Still, you didn't need a degree to stick your tongue up someone's arse, and that was about as far as Owen got in the thinking department before something in his brain short-circuited and he pushed back like he wanted to fuck himself on Deckard's tongue.

Or tried to, because Deckard's hands were merciless, digging deep, already aching bruises into Owen's hips and his arse, keeping him in place as easily as if he was still manhandling a child rather than a member of the SAS. Owen blamed the fact that his thighs were starting to give out for that.

Deckard licked into him with a stubborn determination that made Owen imagine him choking himself on Owen's cock, even though he was fairly sure that wasn't something his brother did on a regular basis either. For all that he'd always told Owen to be smart and pull himself together, Deckard had never found a problem he didn't decide to solve with sheer pig-headed force of will. The deeper he pushed, the more his stubble dragged over the sensitive skin around Owen's hole, an incessant rasp that Owen already knew would leave him sore afterwards. And then Deckard buried his teeth in that same already reddened skin, bit down so hard that Owen _yelped_.

“Fucking hold still or I'll fuck you dry,” he growled, and because Owen's painstakingly acquired sense of self-preservation had never included not goading his violent bastard of a brother, he looked back at him over his shoulder and laughed.

“Wouldn't be dry for long if you fucked me bloody.” He must have sounded a bit too excited at the prospect because Deckard only stared at him for a moment and shook his head.

“Sometimes I wonder what the fuck is wrong with you,” Deckard said with something that sounded like genuine consternation. Like he hadn't killed half a dozen men over the years for no other reason than that they'd had the bad luck of going home with Owen Shaw. Like he hadn't watched his baby brother ride another man's cock and the only reason he hadn't got hard from it was because he'd already got his rocks off earlier fucking some bloke who looked a bit like said baby brother. 

Like he hadn't shown up in Owen's shitty little room on a shitty army base in some shit country in Africa neither of them cared enough about to remember the name of all these years later, sat down across from Owen's bed, and watched him like he could peel his skin off with his eyes and find all the things they'd both kept simmering under the surface for so long.

 

That had been when Owen was twenty-six and had only recently made it into the SAS. He hadn't seen Deckard in almost a year, and he'd wondered more than once what the fuck his brother had been up to in that time. Deckard had already had a reputation when Owen had joined, a reputation built mostly on rumours because the brass quite liked having an all but invisible ghost for the dirtiest of their dirty work. But people always talked, and the most dangerous men in the British Army talked about Deckard Shaw in whispers.

A year, and then Deckard had waltzed into his room and sat his arse down and looked at Owen like they'd only seen each other two days ago. But then it always felt that way between them. At one point, Owen hadn't seen his brother for two years and five months, and the hole that prickly bastard had left in his life had eaten itself so into Owen's brain that it felt like his brother was there with him every single day. Or maybe it was the absolute certainty that if he ever truly needed Deckard, he'd be there. Didn't matter if he was at the other end of the world and if he'd have to disobey every order ever given, he'd still show up the moment his little brother needed someone to finish a fight for him.

So they sat there, and looked at each other, Deckard in desert camo, Owen in nothing but boxers because he'd been about to go to bed. They could have talked, could have talked about fucking anything, about Deckard's last deployment, or about the hellish selection Owen had just gone through, about where he'd be posted next. But somehow neither of them said a word, and the moment passed where one of them should have said a word, and the sandy, dry air in that room felt exactly like the damp autumn air in Oxford six years earlier, hot with things they'd learnt not to talk about and which Deckard at most expressed with his fists. 

Before he could have asked himself what the fuck he was doing, Owen pulled his cock out of his boxers and gave himself a lazy stroke. Deckard raised an eyebrow, but he didn't even look surprised, like he'd been wondering how long it would take for his little brother to do something daft like that. But Deckard had never been shy about making his displeasure known, so Owen wrapped a loose fist around his cock and looked into his brother's dark eyes. He still hadn't seen Deckard kill, although that one wanker he'd beaten half to death back when Deckard had been seventeen and that idiot had pulled a knife on Owen had never been quite right in the head after he woke up from his coma, but Owen imagined his eyes looked like that when he killed. Dark like something just wasn't right with him, any more than a lot of things weren't right with Owen. As a kid he hadn't truly realised just how different he and his brother were from other people. Now that he knew, he could only pity the poor fucks who'd never know what it felt like to have someone kill for you and ask for nothing in return.

It didn't take him long to get hard with those eyes on him, his cock swelling under his fingers. Not for the first time he wondered if Deckard wanted to touch it or if he just didn't want anyone else to. He knew that asking would put an end to this.

“Spit in your hand,” Deckard said suddenly, and Owen hadn't expected the taciturn fuck to open his mouth for anything. He still obeyed, although his mouth was so dry that it didn't help much, his palm still too rough on the sensitive skin of his cock. It felt just a bit like he imagined Deckard hands would feel. There had never been anything soft about them, they'd been bruised and bloodied and calloused for as long as Owen could remember. 

Deckard watched him, hungrily almost, but with the focused calm of a recon mission, observing and analysing the situation, the way Owen's hand moved on his cock, how his fingers tightened on each upward stroke, how he liked to rub his thumb a bit against the underside of the head. Countless details that he knew Deckard was stowing away in that sharp mind of his, and even then he'd had no doubt that if Deckard ever put a hand on him, he'd remember exactly what Owen liked. 

“You only use one hand?” Deckard asked. Owen smirked, only stopped to push his boxers further down, far enough that he could spread his legs and get his left hand on his balls, cupping them, fondling them a little while he went back to stroking himself.

“Hm,” Deckard made like that meant anything at all. After that it was another order or two, a single word to make Owen speed up a little or slow down, to tighten his grip on his cock, to brush his thumb just so over the thin skin between his balls and his cock. Owen wondered what Deckard would do if he touched him there, if he ran the tip of his tongue over that very spot. If Deckard would let him blow him before he'd punch him.

Owen wasn't close yet, he'd only got from the point where it was a lazy wank to the point where stopping without getting off would have been a serious pain, when Deckard got up from that little chair, crossed the small room in two steps and stood in front of him. Towering over him the way he hadn't in fifteen years. Owen licked his lips when he looked up at him.

“Something you want, D?” 

“Yeah, my dick hurts just from watching you rub one out that dry.” He drew a small knife from somewhere hidden in his belt, then shoved his left sleeve unceremoniously up to his elbow. His forearm was thick with muscle, veins standing out under pale skin, blue on the inside. Owen barely had time to wonder what his brother was on about now before Deckard placed a long, shallow cut across the inside of his forearm, the kind that would only bleed for a few minutes before it'd scab up and which probably wouldn't even leave a scar once it had healed. In the artificial light his blood looked unnaturally red, and Owen watched in fascination as it leached from that cut. He was almost drunk on the smell of it, or maybe on the heat of Deckard's body only a few inches away from his, or maybe on the madness of what they were doing.

“Go on,” Deckard said even as Owen already reached out with his right hand, rubbed it over Deckard's bloody skin, squeezed his flesh hard to make more blood ooze out of the cut. A sharp intake of breath from above him, and Owen doubted it was the pain that had made his brother gasp.

“You're a sick fuck,” Owen said, like he'd never jerked off to his brother killing half a dozen men for laying a finger on him, like he wasn't smearing his brother's blood all over his cock until it was sticky and hot and slick and his fingers were sliding over it as easily as if he'd just pulled out of the wettest cunt. Like looking at Deckard didn't get him harder than any man or woman he'd ever fucked.

“Feels better, doesn't it?” He'd heard that tightness in Deckard's voice before, when he was out of breath after a fight. Combat dress wasn't exactly known for being skin-tight, but this close, Owen was pretty sure that his brother's bulge wasn't that big under normal circumstances.

“Feels like I'm fucking you,” Owen said. Not his mouth or his arse or his hand, but _him_ , like he was pushing right underneath Deckard's skin, opening him up, burrowing into him like some kind of parasite, and if that was what Deckard saw him at, he only had himself to blame for feeding Owen's hunger all these years. 

Deckard laughed, still held his forearm stretched out until Owen curled his fingers around his wrist, felt his pulse beating too fast under his skin. His arm was so smeared with blood that Owen couldn't quite see where exactly the cut was, so he leant in and started lapping up the blood. It felt fever hot on his tongue, sweet and salty and irrationally familiar, and this time Deckard most definitely groaned above him. 

“Only taste I'm going to get of you if you're not going to fuck my mouth.” Owen's lips were moving over Deckard's arm, nuzzling the lower end of the cut, and he could _feel_ Deckard's entire body going rigid when he dug his teeth into the torn skin. 

“Get yourself off before I start cutting you,” and that was probably the shittiest threat Owen had ever heard from Deckard's lips, but he wasn't going to risk him walking out now, not when he was so goddamn close. He nosed at Deckard's bloodied arm, breathed in the sickly sweet smell, pressed his thumb down on his racing pulse, and made himself come with a few last, twisting strokes. Deckard was so still he must have been spraining something, judging by the desperate look in his eyes when Owen raised his hand, like a proud kid showing off some crappy kindergarten drawing, his fingers covered in the pinkish, sticky mixture of his own come and his brother's blood.

When he drew his ring finger into his mouth and started sucking it clean, Deckard staggered a step back, but Owen refused to let go of his wrist. He twisted it, hard, and while he had no doubt that Deckard would have been able to free himself somehow, his brother looked close to mesmerised. It was like seeing the deer-in-headlights look on a hawk, and Deckard really should have known better than to think anyone played games with Owen Shaw and won. Deckard was a weapon, but Owen had always been the one who was a goddamn menace.

“If you walk out now,” he said after slowly letting his finger slide out of his mouth, lips wrapped around it tightly, “I'll find someone else on this base to fuck me. I don't give a shit who, I'll take the first man I run into and put a gun to his head if necessary.”

“I'm not going to fuck you,” Deckard said, like it was some kind of iron principle, some god-given rule, as if either of them believed in anything but their own personal code. For a brief moment Owen eyed Deckard's side-arm and thought about going for it, putting it to Deckard's head. They both knew he'd never pull the trigger, though, and while anyone else might have used it as a welcome excuse, Deckard could be as immovable as a mountain. 

“I know you won't. But you're going to jerk off, right here in front of me, before you walk out of this room.” Deckard didn't pull back, didn't object, so Owen pushed, because all Owen ever did was push until he got what he wanted or something snapped. “You're going to get on your knees, get your cock out, and jerk off where I can see you.”

It wasn't indecision or conflict he saw on his brother's face, he just waited with that infuriating patience before the corner of his mouth quirked up and he went down on his knees. There was nothing submissive about that, about the coiled tension in his body. He looked more likely to tackle Owen, his shoulder at just the right height to slam into Owen's solar plexus, than to do as he'd been told, but then his hands finally moved to his fly, freeing his cock from the confines of his uniform – his cock and not much else, not that Owen had eyes for anything else. His mind was still on getting fucked, and for a few brief, fevered moment all he could think about was what he'd have to do to get his brother to fuck him. If he'd have to threaten him, if he'd have to beg him. The thought only lasted until Deckard's hand started moving on his thick, hard cock, firm strokes that weren't fucking around, the veins on the back of his hand standing out.

Owen grabbed Deckard's chin then, although he didn't have to make his brother maintain eye contact. His thumb ended up on Deckard's lips, painting them with come and blood, and he had to force his jaw open to push his thumb into Deckard's mouth. Sharp teeth burrowed into his finger, but Deckard didn't pull away; he let Owen drag his thumb over Deckard's tongue, feeding him their taste while his fingers curled under Deckard's jaw. He held him still like an unruly dog that could rip his hand off, the same dangerous thrill coursing through his body while he watched Deckard stroke his cock.

“I'm so sick of watching you walk out, D,” he said and tightened his grip when Deckard growled in the back of his throat. “Of watching you pretend you wouldn't do anything for me.”

The next bite made him pull back, but only for a moment before he shoved his index and middle finger into Deckard's mouth instead, and this time Deckard licked them clean for him like that was a thing they did, a thing Deckard did for anyone at all. His hand never faltered while Owen fed him his come, fed him his own blood that Owen had rubbed over himself like it was some kind of fucked up ritual, like this was some kind of communion. This is my body, this is my blood, this is my goddamn come shoved down your throat, you teasing bastard.

“It's like you need to believe there's something you can deny me.” His palm pressed against Deckard's lips now, smearing what remained of their combined mess over his mouth and his chin. It made Deckard look like he'd sucked someone's dick and then bitten it off.

“I am,” he said, still tugging on his cock, still rubbing himself like that wasn't exactly what Owen had told him to. Owen tried to memorise the way Deckard's hand moved, just like Deckard had with him, but it was hard to look away from his face when he rubbed blood and come into his stubbly skin, away from the way his nostrils flared to breathe in their smell, the way his eyes got darker with want.

The problem had never been _only_ Deckard's hands.

His moans were muffled when he came, making a mess of the floor and quite possibly his uniform, but there was nothing quiet about his expression, eyes on Owen's like he couldn't tear himself away, lips parted just so when Owen brushed his thumb over them again. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that he could imagine it, that he could think about Deckard's lips on his throat, his shoulders, his thighs. 

He bent forward until he could lean his forehead against Deckard's, the initial contact a bit more forceful than necessary, but then he simply let it rest there. He breathed in the air that left his brother's lips, let his lids close for a few moments to focus on nothing but that. A minute passed before Deckard raised his hand and cradled the back of Owen's head. His hair was too short for Deckard to grab it, but he rubbed his scalp gently as if to make up for that, keeping Owen close while another minute passed in breathless silence.

“You're unbelievable,” Deckard said after a while. It didn't sound like a compliment. Owen laughed, and after that Deckard was gone too soon – pulled himself up to his feet, tucked himself in, wiped his hands and face perfunctorily clean on an old shirt of Owen's so he looked slightly less like he'd mauled someone, and then he was already three steps towards the door while Owen was still sitting there with his dick hanging out. 

He stopped with his hand on the door knob, turned around with a big brother's shit-eating grin as if they were normal siblings just horsing around.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Owen needed a moment to figure out what the fuck he was talking about. “Didn't think you had it in you.”

“If you tell me you're proud of me, I am going to break your kneecap.”

Deckard laughed and was gone a few heartbeats later. Sitting on his bed, contemplating the drying mess on his cock and balls and how desperately he needed a shower, Owen realised that while Deckard's hands had been far from the only problem, they also still hadn't touched him.

 

They were touching him now. Ten hot pinpoints where his fingers dug into Owen's arse to keep him open, and if his grip hadn't been so firm Owen probably would have been humping his car. They'd chosen quite possibly the worst place imaginable for this, after years of not doing it in barracks and hotel rooms and back at home – the hangar Owen's division kept their vehicles in on base in Kandahar, a stupid fucking choice even in the deepest darkest night.

They'd finally been assigned on a mission together, because some things even Deckard Shaw couldn't do on his own without some backup and some fast vehicles to get in and out, and watching his brother work had been like some kind of religious epiphany. They'd sparred over the years, and he'd seen Deckard more than once at a shooting range, but none of that compared to the sheer bloody, murderous havoc he could wreak when the brass let him off the leash. Owen had pulled himself together during the mission – he _was_ a professional – and he'd pulled himself together throughout the way back and their debriefing on base and a quick performance review with his team and a shower and dinner, endless fucking hours until he managed to tear himself away. It had been pitch black by the time he went to the hangar because sleep was pretty unlikely as high-strung as he felt. He hadn't even managed to turn the lights on before Deckard had grabbed him.

One of Deckard's hands slipped down to his balls, gave them a firm squeeze while his tongue licked broadly over his hole, then dove back in. Every wet lick sent a shiver up Owen's spine, made him feel unreasonably open when Deckard wasn't even bothering to push his fingers into him. His rough thumb kept teasing Owen's perineum; hot breath washed over Owen's skin in a puff of laughter when Owen whimpered into his arm.

“Fuck, you want me to come before you even fuck me?” Owen asked.

Another bite on his arse made him wince and squirm, followed by a hard smack to his thigh.

“Don't even think about it, little brother.” But even Deckard could take a hint and rose to his feet behind him. He was still dressed, the fabric of his uniform uncomfortably rough against Owen's sensitised skin – not the same uniform he'd been wearing on the mission earlier today, but Owen had an easy time ignoring that little detail. The hangar still retained too much of the day's heat, and Owen's back was already damp with sweat when Deckard slid his hands up to his shoulders, then around his chest to pull Owen up against him. It was uncomfortable as hell, the way he had to arch his back against him, the way Deckard's hand clasped his throat to make him tilt his head back, the hard edges of the vehicle's body still digging into Owen's hips.

It was too dark to see much of anything when he glanced back at his brother, but he'd never needed to see him as long as he could feel and smell him, fresh sweat and too expensive shower gel Deckard got from God knew where, his bulge pressing against Owen's arse. Owen didn't need light to reach behind himself and open his trousers, get his hands on Deckard's cock for the first damn time in his life. Deckard gasped against the side of his neck, fingers twitching on his throat when Owen gave him an awkward stroke.

“This is insane,” Owen whispered, as if being quiet would have made any difference if someone found them, and yet he knew he only sounded delighted. Deckard had always been the sensible one of the two – Owen had learnt how to _appear_ sensible, but he'd always been too hungry for the next adrenaline rush, whereas Deckard had pure ice in his veins. Stone-cold, except when it came to Owen. He was burning up behind him now, his breathing too fast, his cock leaking over Owen's hand.

He let Deckard push his hands away when he took a hold of himself, grabbed the edge of the bonnet instead to give himself something to hold on to. It had been a while since he'd let anyone fuck him – it was a lot less fun when Deckard wasn't in the country to be furiously, murderously jealous about it – but he'd waited a lifetime for this, for the familiar warmth of Deckard's breath on his neck and the not yet familiar pressure of his cock against his hole, sliding smoothly over his slicked up skin, the touch almost soothing after the rasp of Deckard's stubble if it wasn't for the low ache radiating through his flesh.

He waited until the head of his brother's dick was inside him before he gasped, “If someone walked in right now –” Not because he wanted Deckard to stop, but because he almost wanted to see what would happen if someone tried to stop him now. A shallow thrust brought him deeper inside, and he felt Deckard's low voice almost more than he heard it.

“Then I'd kill them.”

“You'd have to be quiet about it,” Owen said. His back was still arched painfully, but he didn't let that stop him from pushing back against Deckard, forcing him deeper until the stretch of it made him shudder. “If someone heard a shot, you'd have to deal with more than just one man.”

Deckard tried to muffle his moans when he sheathed himself fully in Owen, but he couldn't hide the hot puffs of air against Owen's neck, or the way his voice sounded like someone had taken sandpaper to his throat.

“Then I'd kill the whole fucking base.” 

There should have been something threatening about Deckard's hand on his throat, not quite pushing down, just holding it like some kind of caress while he started thrusting into him, all but forcing Owen up onto the metal of the car. 

“Jesus, if you wanted to fuck me that badly, you should have done it earlier.” Owen tried to laugh, but it turned into a breathy moan when Deckard tightened his grip on his hip to keep him still while he fucked into him.

Owen closed his eyes in the dark, his mind back on what he'd seen earlier that day – Deckard's finger pulling a trigger, his hand producing a knife from who knew where and slamming it into someone's throat with as much force as he pushed into Owen with now, his hands breaking arms and necks like they were nothing but twigs under the sheer destructive force he was in a fight. He'd always known what his brother was, a killer at heart even before he'd ended a single life, but he'd never before seen to what extent the army had taught him all the skills he needed to _be_ what he was in every gory, breathtaking detail.

“I can't believe you're still complaining,” Deckard growled, his next thrust so hard it felt almost punitive. Owen's cock jumped, brushed against the cold metal he was leaning on. He covered Deckard's hand on his throat with his own while he squirmed back against him.

“Not complaining.” Speaking was getting harder with the pressure on his throat and the air being driven out of his lungs with every hard thrust. He could already imagine the bruises he'd find on his thighs and hips in the morning and tightened around Deckard's cock. When he tried to turn his head to get at least a glimpse at his brother in the low light, Deckard just about let him, although he pressed his thumb hard into the hollow beneath Owen's chin. If he were anyone else, Deckard could have snapped his neck so easily. “How long have you wanted this, D? Since Oxford?”

He couldn't read his brother's expression in the dark, only felt the sharp snap of his hips, the too hot touch of his left hand sliding from his hips to his stomach, stubbornly refusing to touch his cock.

“Or before that?” Owen pressed on, smiled at the way Deckard's fingers dug into his throat. “Since I was eighteen? Sixteen?” The pressure increased until he could barely breathe, barely force out the next words, “Younger than that?”

Even now Deckard moved so fast it almost made Owen dizzy. His hand let go of his throat to grab him by the back of his neck and slam his face down onto the car, just shy of actually bashing his face in on the metal, but hard enough that Owen's skull rang from the impact. He still moaned more from want than pain when his brother thrust into him at the same moment, every semblance of restraint gone. Owen took that as a yes.

He didn't need Deckard to touch his cock when he was getting this instead, the strength of his thrusts, the heat of his hands on his hips, his back. When he came over the rough metal of the vehicle's body, he didn't bother to try and stay quiet – after all, the worst thing that could happen if anyone heard them was that he'd get to watch Deckard work. Deckard's breath stuttered a little when Owen clenched down hard around him, determined to make his brother lose it, even though every thrust made his overstimulated body shudder. There was no way for Deckard to muffle his moans when he came inside him, hoarse and too loud in the silence of the hangar, an involuntary confession that he'd been starved for this every bit as much as Owen.

He couldn't bring himself to move when Deckard pulled out of him, his whole body pleasantly sore and aching, groaning in half-hearted protest when Deckard's hand grabbed his shoulder to pull him up and make him turn around. Owen curled his hands into Deckard's uniform jacket and let his forehead rest against his brother's. It was too warm to stay this close, but there was no way in hell he'd let Deckard walk away from him now. Fortunately Deckard didn't seem to want to, wrapped one arm loosely around him and cupped his arse with the other. A firm squeeze that made Owen clench up so he could keep the come from trickling down his thigh.

“You should clean up your mess,” Owen said once he trusted his voice again. He brushed his thumb over Deckard's lips, over the rough stubble on his chin. The idea alone made him light-headed, of his brother kneeling between his legs again, licking him clean now, tasting his own come rather than Owen's this time – although maybe Owen could convince him to lick that up, too, to clean his stomach and his thighs, to take Owen's softening cock in his mouth and suck it clean.

To his surprise Deckard didn't object to the suggestion, just brushed his lips over Owen's thumb and said, “Later.”

Owen pressed against him with a groan, couldn't help but think of all the places on his body he wanted to feel his brother's stubble on. He'd kiss him afterwards, tasting them both on his lips, and that's when it dawned on him that during all this he still hadn't kissed him even once. Just as Deckard's hand found its way to the back of his head again, his touch surprisingly gentle, Owen all but smashed his mouth against Deckard's, bit his lips until Deckard parted them for him and licked into his mouth as if to mirror what his brother had done for him earlier. He didn't stop until his lips were burning from Deckard's bites and his lungs were starved for air, and even then he only pulled back a fraction.

“I've wanted to fuck you since I knew what my cock was good for,” Owen whispered, not because he had to stay quiet, not because he was afraid to admit it, but because his voice was cracking in his throat. “First time I jerked off, I already thought it'd be better if it were your hand rather than my own.”

He worked his hands underneath Deckard's jacket and shirt, ran them up his sides. His fingertips retraced the sharp lines of his muscles, the gnarly edges of old scars. Later he'd take his time touching every inch of Deckard's body, and if he had to tie him down for it, but for now this was enough. And Deckard didn't seem like he wanted to pull back from this – like he'd crossed his own personal Rubicon and there was no resistance left beyond that.

“I was never sure how much I'd let you get away with, if you'd ever tried,” Deckard said, and his words did sound almost like a confession. 

“That's still not an answer.” Owen's thumb paused on a knotted scar on Deckard's back; he turned his head until his nose almost brushed his brother's.

“What the fuck does it matter?” No anger in Deckard's voice, only a hint of annoyance. “I don't think anything really changed between when I didn't want to fuck you yet and when I did. You're my brother.”

He said that like it was an explanation rather than a damn good reason for most people not to want to fuck, but Owen got him. He didn't always know what went on in his brother's head, because it wasn't as if Deckard ever condescended to sharing his innermost thoughts with anyone, but when it came to _them_ , to what was between them, there were no limits to what they'd do to each other. No matter how hard Deckard had tried to deny that simple truth, how often he'd walked away from it when it had stared him in the eyes, deep down he must have known for years that there was nothing he could truly deny Owen. Nothing he _wanted_ to deny him.

What Owen said was, “Evasive wanker,” and headbutted him lightly. Deckard's hand was still on the back of his neck, warm and broad and calloused, almost eerily familiar after years of not feeling its touch. Owen kissed him again, slow and deep this time, finally taking his time to savour it now that he was sure his brother was his for good.

Deckard let him, thumb stroking his neck, the other arm warm around Owen's waist, until they heard muffled voices outside the hangar. Owen couldn't make out the words, but they sounded calm, not like there was any kind of emergency. Deckard still moved to pull away from him, one hand already starting to tuck himself in. Owen grabbed his chin, as hard as he had all those years ago when Deckard had knelt for him, and shook his head.

“Don't,” he said.

“Do you _want_ them to catch us?”

“I don't want you to go anywhere,” Owen said and meant _You're not walking away from me ever again_. “I doubt anyone's actually going to come in here, and if they do … you already told me what you'd do with them.”

“And you want to see me do it?” Deckard said, his voice dropping lower. Owen still had his hand under his brother's uniform, pressed his palm to Deckard's chest.

“I'd help you do it.” He kissed him again, brushing his lips over the corner of Deckard's mouth, swallowing any objections. “The only thing I might just like better than having you kill for me is giving you a hand with it.”

Deckard laughed in something that almost sounded like disbelief; he'd always enjoyed pretending that he didn't savour his cruelty every bit as much as Owen did, when they both knew that was bullshit. Owen could feel his laughter in his chest, his laughter and his moan when Owen bit his bottom lip, teeth lingering on soft skin.

“You know, I like my job,” Deckard said. It was Owen's turn to laugh.

“You like killing people and getting paid for it, you don't need the army for that.”

“I don't think either of us _needs_ anything, little brother.” He didn't say “anything _else_ ”, but Owen heard it in his tone, felt it in the way Deckard's hand touched the back of his neck, pulling him close until their foreheads touched again, and the continuing voices outside didn't stop him now from letting Owen kiss him. For a minute Owen let his mind dwell on what Deckard would do to anyone who had the bad fortune of coming in and seeing them, thought about the warm hand that cradled his head killing one man or two or a hundred. It was a nice fantasy, like all those old musings of Deckard killing the men Owen had fucked, but he didn't need it to come true just then. 

The only thing he needed was for Deckard to keep his hands right where they were.


End file.
